


Fonda de la Montana

by maddy_does (favefangirl)



Series: carry on countdown 2020 [21]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: (canon typical), Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Enemies to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, Mild Blood, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Sort Of, elitism, pool boy ! Simon, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28087104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favefangirl/pseuds/maddy_does
Summary: Baz is just trying to enjoy is sunny Spanish holiday, but between the infuriating pool-boy and his father's attempts at finding him a wife which are about a subtle as a neon sign, it's not exactly going to plan.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: carry on countdown 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026733
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	Fonda de la Montana

**Author's Note:**

> Carry On Countdown Day 21, DEC 15: Warmth

Spain was meant to be relaxing. That's what he'd been promised. A nice, calm holiday as a family, drinking wine and sunbathing until even Baz's grey complexion took on a warm, golden hue. Mordelia had even had to swear to be on her best behaviour. They have it in writing. And this quaint little villa in Fondo de la Montana with the sea on their one side, and a mountain on their other seemed like the perfect place to deliver that. Of course he wouldn't get to be so lucky.

Like all good villas, Sitio de Amor comes with a pool-boy who arrives once every two days to clean the pool and touch up on some garden maintenance whilst he's at it. There are only a couple of problems with this. The first is that the boy - Baz hasn't bothered to learn his name - is entirely incompetent. Really, how he's managed to keep his job is quite beyond Baz, given how often he's dropped the net into the pool, or cut a flower whilst trying to trim the weeds, or that one time he tripped over the garden hose and ended up spraying Mordelia and Daphne who were sat out by the pool. The worst thing is, that's not even the worst bit about him, because the absolute _worst_ thing, is how much Baz seems to keep thinking about him.

He'd not come to Spain with any expectations of a holiday fling. Unless he brought home one of the girls from the club they frequent every weekend, there's no way his father would approve. He might dress it up as merely frustration at Baz not keeping this family holiday strictly family, but Baz would know deep down it was about him bringing home a bloke. He's really not trying to make things awkward, not when they're trapped in a villa together with nowhere else to go.

But there's something about the pool-boy. There shouldn't be. He's an idiot, for starters. And he's not even that fit. Alright, he skin has a deep, sun kissed glow which works in his favour, and Baz has always been a bit of a sucker for curls, but he's not _that_ remarkable. He's pretty basic; blonde hair, blue eyes, fairly tall. This is what Baz has been trying to tell himself every time he goes out into the garden to read by the pool, and finds the boy trying to fish leaves out, or trimming the bushes, or mowing the grass. Damn his traitorous brain, though, because no matter how much convincing Baz tries, it still won't keep the boy off his mind.

It's at times like these that Baz wishes he had a friend. Or, well, maybe that's not entirely accurate because he does _have_ friends, but he wishes he had the kinds of friends he could talk to about dumb pool boys with unremarkable blue eyes, and the fact that he's got an internal countdown going until his father demands he marry some poor women who's probably absolutely charming, but in whom Baz has less than no interest. Someone who might understand and sympathise with the pressure he's under, because they're both top blokes but Dev and Niall don't really cut it when it comes to this.

It takes Baz all of a week to stoop to a new low, and actively seek out the pool-boy. When he knows the boy will be coming to clean, he goes out into the garden to sit with a bit of Dickens and an iced coffee. Right on time (which is actually fifteen minutes late, but Baz had the foresight to factor this into his calculations) the boy comes in through the gate, cleaning supplies in hand. He's forgone the t-shirt today, which, usually Baz finds almost revolting, the pale, slightly malnourished chavs near his estate who walk around with their t-shirts over their shoulders instead of on their torsos. The boy on the other hand, while not chiselled, is toned and evenly tanned and, actually, Baz isn't complaining. So much so that he might be slightly distracted and when he goes to take a drink from his coffee, he ends up spilling it all down his t-shirt. He swears, moves his book out of the way of the carnage, and pulls the sticky fabric away from his chest. He looked up and the pool-boy is frowning at him.

"Estas mirando a quien ahora?" Baz spits, which might have had more bite if it wasn't almost completely nonsensical. Plato and Thucydides, fine, no problem. Spanish? Not his forte.

"Uh, I'm English?" The pool-boy replies in a vaguely northern accent, eyes wide.

Baz just huffs, grabs his coffee and his book, and heads inside to clean his t-shirt. _That was a success_ , he thinks bitterly. The situation is not helped by the fact that now Baz has something else to not stop thinking about - the pool-boy's hip bones, and the way they rested above the waistband of his jeans. Good lord have mercy, Baz had always thought he was going straight to hell, but it seems he's already there.

Baz decides to change tactics. Instead of finding ways to creepily watch the pool-boy work like some desperate, middle-aged extra on some crappy American import like The Real Housewives of Buttfuck Nowhere, he's going to avoid him. This, he reasons is a perfect plan. He won't have anything to think about if he doesn't have to see the boy. It seems fool proof, and he's more than a little congratulatory as he settles down in his room with his laptop and a cocktail to work on a uni essay as far away from the garden as he can get.

Daphne knocks on his ajar door and pokes her head in. She smiles at him the way she always does when she wants something, and Baz immediately tenses. "I don't suppose you could spare five minutes to help Simon with the garden trimmings?"

"Simon?"

"Yeah, you know the pool-boy? Does a lot of gardening for us as well? I knew you'd be up for it, thanks love." She's gone before Baz can even correct her and say he never actually agreed to help. 

With a huff, he takes a long gulp of the cocktail, then throws himself off the bed to traipse out into the garden. Blissfully, Simon (and of course he's called Simon) has opted to wear the t-shirt today, so that's one less thing for Baz to worry about. He walks over and crosses his arm while Simon stuffs twigs and leaves from the bushes that line the garden into bin bags. When Simon looks up finally, Baz merely raises an unimpressed brow.

"You're here to help?" Simon asks, and his accent is even more pronounced now.

"Obviously," Baz replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"Grab those," Simon instructs, ignoring Baz's rudeness, nodding at two black bags next to him. He grabs two others and straightens up. He's not quite as tall as Baz, Baz notices. "We'll take them to the jeep outside."

Baz waits until Simon is already walking out of the garden to huff a sigh and grab the bags like he's been asked. It's not too much of a chore, really, but he can think of better ways to be spending his day. More to the point, this very much defeats his objective to AVOID Simon. Now he knows that Simon's voice is all he's going to be able to think about for days. God, he's so pathetic, he almost can't believe himself!

He walks out to where Simon's jeep is parked, and dumps the bags in the back alongside the ones Simon had carried. As he does so, one of the bags rips open, and as Baz pulls his hand away, it catches on a sharp branch and slices into the side of his palm. He hisses and tilts his hand to observe the wound. It's thin, and bright red with blood, but little is actually trickling onto his hand. 

"Let me see," Simon says as he takes hold of Baz's hand.

Baz doesn't know if it's the shock of the contact, or the softness of Simon's voice, but he quickly snatches the hand away. "Careful, idiot," he mumbles, holding his hand defensively to his chest.

"I'm trying to help," Simon replies, exasperated. He sighs and shakes his head. "Whatever. Put some anti-bac on it."

He says no more, climbing into the jeep and driving off, leaving Baz to stand in the road with his cut hand which tingles where Simon's fingers had touched him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head to the sky. He takes one deep breath, then another, before braving returning to the house to look for a first aid kit. Simon is an idiot, but he's right about disinfectant. Baz feels slightly guilty for the way he'd reacted. Simon was trying to be nice and he'd all but thrown it back in his face. As he sits and lets Daphne clean the wound, he can't help but think of Simon's hands and how they'd felt on his skin - coarse through work, but warm and surprisingly gentle. He's rueful of the fact that that's another thing to add to the growing list of things about Simon that he can't get out of his head.

He resolves to apologise for being so rude the next time Simon comes to clean the pool. It's not typically his way, but there's something about Simon. He knows that sounds ridiculous, can barely believe it himself, but he still finds himself sat waiting by the pool the next day Simon is scheduled to come around. He has his head titled towards the sun, leeching as much warmth from it as he can, so he doesn't notice Simon arrive until he hears footsteps on the grass. He opens his eyes, spots Simon getting his cleaning kit out, and stands up to go talk to him.

He clears his throat as he approaches. "Listen," he says, cutting right to the chase. "About the other day-"

"I'm used to snobby clients," Simon interrupts with a shrug.

It throws Baz for six. He wasn't exactly anticipating an abundance of gratitude, sure, but he'd at least thought he'd be able to make the apology. He stands there, mouth gaping, not sure how to progress from there. In the end he settles for a frown, a mumbled 'whatever' (because he's mature like that, see) and walking away, back into the house. He goes and sits on his bed, still slightly dumbfounded. It's fine. Simon hates him, which is fine. But there is a strange feeling in his stomach that feels a little bit like disappointment which is not _quite_ fine, but Baz is making the executive decision to ignore. 

Simon is not the only part of the holiday which is turning out to be quite dismal. Fondo de la Montana is a town rich in history, but Baz hasn't been able to explore a single inch given that he's basically been assigned babysitter of Mordelia, the twins and the baby. Baz thought the purpose of renting a villa with a pool was so that they could sunbathe at home, but that hasn't stopped his mother and father from making the great escape to the beach every morning. He's managed to indulge in some behaviours that would not have been acceptable back home, like drinking at 12 in the afternoon, spending all day reading in the sun and eating far too many sweet foods, but there's been a greater limit even on these things in the face of his responsibilities to his siblings. 

When he has seen his father, it's been incredibly awkward. He keeps pushing Baz about what he's going to do after uni, about potentially joining to family firm (as though Baz has any interest at all in agriculture) and making not-so-subtle comments about the joys of children and family and having a wife. Baz has spent most of the holiday filled with dread and biting his own tongue.

Somewhat out of the blue, his father announces that they're going to be hosting a party at the villa, and will be joined for the rest of the holiday by his friend Dr Wellbelove. He very poignantly looks at Baz when he mentions that Mrs Wellbelove, and their daughter, will also be joining him. Baz has to swallow a couple of times around his dry throat at the thought of being not-so-gently nudged towards some poor girl just trying to have a nice holiday, to fulfil his father's fantasy of him settling down into a nuclear family, set to join the business and produce a long line of heirs. He shudders at the thought. 

Baz spends the next few days hiding from everyone, ignoring calls for family dinners, sneaking out at stupid o'clock in the morning to take a walk into town before he can be lumbered with babysitting duty, and just generally keeping out of everyone's ways. He would hide forever if he could, but even he recognises that completely ditching the party would be a step too far. Despite evidence to the contrary, he's not actually trying to get disowned on this holiday.

He dresses up in the grey suit Daphne lays out for him even though it's hideous and washes out his complexion, even despite the weeks of sun he's been getting. He even wears the tie despite how uncomfortable it is, especially in the heat. He smiles for the family photo, and even tries to be subtle as he downs an entire glass of prosecco despite the fact that it's 10 AM on a Tuesday. He smiles tightly as his father parades him around the room to greet guests - mostly friends from the club, all entirely tedious. He's mostly willing to play ball, until he spots a pretty, blonde girl about his age in an expensive looking dress across the room. Deducing that that must be Agatha, and foreseeing the awkwardness that would emerge from his father introducing them, he quickly reverts back to the initial plan to hide forever, and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. 

He barely wait for a response, merely storming away from the partner his father is introducing him to in the vague direction of the bathroom, grabbing another glass of prosecco (his fourth? fifth?) from a passing waiter with one hand, and loosening his tie with the other. He makes it to the bathroom, slams the door shut behind him, then leans against it with his eyes closed, downing the glass and taking some deep breaths.

"Um, occupied?" A familiar voice says. His eyes flick open and sat on the floor by the bath in an ill-fitting blue suit is Simon, holding a cheeseboard to his chest like a lifeline, a half-empty bottle of wine next to him. "Don't you know how to knock?"

Baz huffs at him. "Used to snobby clients, but you don't mind drinking our expensive wine?" he sneers.

"I wouldn't be here but my boss dragged me," Simon explains, holding the cheese closer to his chest and frowning. "Do you need to pee?"

"No," Baz replies, surprising even himself. "I need to hide. And," he adds as he walks forward, "I need more wine."

He grabs the bottle before Simon can snatch it away and takes a drink straight from it. It's still not enough alcohol, but his head is starting to feel floaty, so it's almost doing its job. He grimaces at the taste, never really being a big fan of the reds, then pulls his tie off completely, dropping it onto the side of the sink, and undoing the top button of his shirt. In the reflection of the mirror in front of him, he can see Simon staring at him, mouth slightly open (mouth breather, figures).

"Didn't your mother teach you it's rude to stare," Baz snaps at him through the mirror, taking another long gulp of wine.

"She's dead," Simon replies, sourly.

Baz huffs. "Mine too," he says, before drinking more wine. He raises to bottle. "To the sob stories," he toasts.

Simon laughs. "Yeah, your life is a real tragedy."

Baz turns on his heel and glares at him. "What do _you_ know of my life?"

Simon stares at him, straight faced. "The expensive holiday villa, living off daddy's money, crying yourself to sleep because he wouldn't buy you an extra pony."

Baz sneers. "That's not my life _at all_ , and even if it were, better that than feeling sorry for myself because I have to work. Pouting because you have to clean the kinds of houses you can never afford? Pathetic."

Simon stands, dropping the cheeseboard on the floor, spilling only a piece of camembert onto the floor. "Fuck you," he spits, taking a step forward. "You're just an elitist prat who doesn't care about anyone but himself."

"And you're just some sad case, bitter about your lot in life so you go about huffing and puffing and hoping someone will just hand the solution over to you!" Baz counters, squaring up to him. He's never been in a fight before, but he's quite drunk and quite annoyed, so he's more than willing to have a go right now.

"Right, because you know nothing about having things handed to you?" Simon accuses, all venom.

"I think you misunderstand my life-"

"Oh, I understand it perfectly, mate-"

"I'm definitely not your 'mate'-"

"That's for damn sure-"

"Maybe if you were less of a cunt-"

"Fuck you-"

"Fuck me yourself, you coward!" Baz shouts. He doesn't even know where it comes from, some sad joke he saw on Twitter once which has somehow resurfaced from his subconscious his in semi-inebriated state. He braces himself for the inevitable punch, probably just the beginning of the fallout. He'll no doubt go to his father and tell him what's just happened, and the closet door will well and truly be blown off. Today's sad attempt at getting some kind of courtship going with Agatha will only increase tenfold, and the few freedoms he's been allowed at uni will soon be stripped away. 

It's a complete shock when, instead of any of that happening, Simon instead grabs him by the lapels of his suit and tugs him into a kiss. It's not the most nuanced thing in the world, too much bite, but honestly Baz would expect nothing less. Simon kisses him but keeps pulling on his jacket until their bodies are pressed together as tightly as their lips. Baz flails for only a second before placing his hands on Simon's hips to pull him just that fraction closer. It's slightly surreal and entirely unexpected, but may well be a sign that the rest of the holiday might not be such a tragedy after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is another thing i've left purposefully open ended with the intent of maybe, one day, adding to it, which i probably never will. whoops.
> 
> anyway, if you wanna leave a comment or a kudos they're much appreciated! especially let me know if there's something you think i forgot to tag! 
> 
> i'm taking prompts! if you're interested please drop the prompt in the comments below. if you do send a prompt be prepared for me to take fifty years to fill it because _uni_ , but i promise i'll try! come say hi on tumblr: [@maddy-does](https://maddy-does.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thanks for reading, have a wonderful existence.


End file.
